Chapter 1 #2
She starts with primer, the smell citrusy and sharp, then foundation, cool against my jaw. Every stroke is calculated—press, blend, feather. I wonder if this is what being dissected feels like: not pain, just the sense of being inspected, improved.
“So, explain to me,” she says, working the brush in circles, “how exactly did you lose this bet?”
I glare at Hunter’s fuzzy reflection in the mirror. “Someone told me Professor McHugh was too nice to give a quiz the week before Halloween.”
Hunter grins, unrepentant. “It was a fifty-fifty shot.”
Sara arches a brow. “Should’ve asked me. McHugh is a control freak.”
“Could we maybe not talk about the academic tragedy unfolding on my face?” I mumble.
She laughs. “Fine, fine. Let’s talk about your cheekbones instead.” She pivots to contouring, sweeping brown shadow beneath my bones with alarming intensity. “You ever wear makeup before?”
I shake my head, instantly regretting the motion as powder puffs into my nose. “No.”
Sara keeps a running commentary as she works, usually addressed to herself. “Okay, we’re going for a full reshape… I need more light… Stay still…” She paints my lids with something sticky, metallic. My lashes are attacked by a curler that looks like a medieval torture device.
Through it all, Hunter offers nothing but peanut gallery wisdom.
“Damn, look at that bone structure. Montgomery, you could have a whole second life.”
“Can we please not talk about having a second life while you’re transforming me into a cartoon sex symbol?”
Sara smirks, dotting something cold and wet along my upper lip. “This isn’t even the hard part.”
I try to breathe through my mouth as she glues on the false lashes—feathery, inky, weightless and yet somehow huge.
My vision warps at the corners, everything becoming dreamlike, exaggerated, things in the distance still blurred.
It occurs to me now that I should have worn my backup contacts for this.
Hunter’s phone makes a soft snap as he takes a photo. I flinch. “Don’t you dare—”
He shows me the screen. My eyes are enormous, my mouth tiny. I look nothing like myself.
“Relax,” he says. “I’m documenting your metamorphosis for posterity.”
I want to punch him.
Sara attacks my brows with a small comb, then fills them in. She turns to the vanity, plucks out a tube of lipstick—a red so vivid it hurts to look at. “You ready?”
“Not now, not ever.”
Sara chuckles. She leans in and paints my mouth. Her hands are so steady it’s like she’s drawing with a ruler. There is the chemical taste of pigment, the waxy tug, and then she presses a tissue to my lips.
“Don’t rub. Just blot.”
I blot, I think. When she releases me, I stare into the mirror, leaning closer to see better, and feel a momentary, wild dissociation. My face is a stranger’s, sculpted and dramatic, a parody of glamour. I look like the evil twin I never had.
Hunter’s jaw drops. “Holy shit, you’re a dead ringer.”
Sara beams. “Not bad, right? But we need to test the wig.”
From a stand in the corner, she lifts the auburn monstrosity—thick waves, side part, curls that look superhuman. She yanks a mesh cap over my hair, pins it with cold efficiency, then lowers the wig onto my scalp. It’s heavier than expected; I can feel every hair follicle protesting.
She fiddles, arranging the curls to frame my face. “Not bad,” she says, stepping back. “But hold still.” She whips out a small hairdryer and blasts my temples, smoothing fly-aways.
The dryer’s roar makes it impossible to hear myself think, which is almost a relief.
Eventually, Sara kills the noise and regards her work. “Okay. Turn.”
I do. Hunter has his phone up again, snapping pictures from every angle. He looks between the screen and me.
“Dude,” he says. “It’s perfect. I mean—if you were taller, you’d probably get scouted for a drag show.”
“Can we not,” I mutter. “I don’t want to get scouted for anything, ever.”
Sara ignores the banter, fussing with my neckline, pressing powder into my collarbones, layering on something shimmery. Her hands are warm and gentle.
She stands back and examines me with a critical eye. “Okay, test run’s almost done. Let’s see the walk.”
I stare at her. “What walk?”
“You gotta sell it, Spence. Jessica doesn’t slouch or trudge. She glides and sways.” She mimics a hip swing so exaggerated it would dislocate an ordinary person.
Hunter whistles. “Get up. Let’s see your runway.”
I make a noise somewhere between a laugh and a groan, then stand. My knees feel wrong—unsteady, but also kind of… buoyant? The wig shifts, tickling my neck. I realize for the first time that I’m not wearing the dress; this is just the warm-up.
I try to take a step. My legs want to collapse inward. “I can’t do this,” I say, already picturing my imminent disaster.
Sara pats my arm. “You’re overthinking. Just pretend you’re being chased by paparazzi. How long does he need to last, Hunter?”
“Too long,” I say.
“He’s gotta stay until midnight,” Hunter clarifies, grinning.
Sara’s eyes soften. “You’re gonna be fine, Spence. No one will recognize you. And if anyone gives you shit, you tell me and I’ll cut them.”
I almost believe her.
Hunter tucks his phone away and stands. “You ready for the dress rehearsal?”
“No, but might as well get it over with.”
Sara pulls out a bag and extracts the dress—a red sheath, sequined so heavily it’s almost armor.
She holds it up with both hands, inspecting it for defects, then turns it around.
The back is lower than I thought. The reality of the situation hits me: there will be photos, there will be witnesses, there will be zero escape routes.
Sara squeezes my shoulder. “It’s just for one night, Spence. Then you never have to do it again.”
I let out a long, slow exhale. “Okay,” I say. “Just—no more pictures until it’s over, Hunter.”
He gives me a solemn salute, then winks at Sara behind my back. “Scout’s honor.”
I watch in the mirror as Sara wipes the last smudge of powder from my jaw.
My eyes look enormous, not quite human. My mouth—her mouth, really—is fixed in a shape I’ve never seen on my face.
I wonder if this is what people feel when they get their first tattoo: the horror, the awe, the suspicion that they’ve fundamentally changed something unfixable.
But Sara is right. It’s one night. Three hours tops, and then I can go back to being an atom among atoms.
I close my eyes, grip the edge of the vanity, and let the reality settle over me, heavy and dazzling and absolutely, inexorably, out of my control.